you stood at the edge of the promenade and waited
as stones clapped out a quick little rhythm
as water surged into feet and skin
the idiot waves danced, moon-tethered
they spat, and you spat back, your hair a pennant
rippling towards me. the beach, bespectacled with
sea-glass, shone. the churning storm tugging
at fingertips, the rush, an orgasm of static, burst —
the self-aware hush, creeping back. how it beckons.
how your mouth is salt, ozone and spit.
Lorna Martin lives in North London and on @lornarabbit. Her poetry has appeared in A Quiet Courage, Foxglove Journal, Roulade Magazine and Crush Anthology (Brunel University Press). She also reviews films for Blueprint Review.